the archer
by suicidal.stolen.art
Summary: all of my heroes die all alone — (prose)


_**the archer**_

bottle-brown eyes shatter like  
stained-glass windows.  
burnished bruises on  
bloody skin and  
_fire_,  
too much of it.

it is a roiling ocean of trapped heat  
building up, up, up—  
but you never let it surface,  
though it hurts so bad  
you want to  
scream.  
you wish they would steal it back from you;  
you don't want it anymore.

/

a new brand of ink every year.  
stifling loss,  
shifting allegiance,  
and _him_:  
the one you want,  
the one you think wants you.  
still, he slips through your fingers,  
an exhalation of broken realities.  
you mourn.  
you move on.

the other one,  
the other love  
stumbles into your life,  
and he is not perfect.  
he is a mess of raven hair  
and bronze skin  
and crumpled copies of crooked smiles.  
you thought  
he reserved those for you.  
turned out he was only wasting time.

when the first boy comes back,  
all jarring, hot lightning and  
biting salt on a healing wound,  
you think  
_maybe_ _this is it.  
_but he still leaves, his desire cold,  
a dove on his shoulder.  
you think to yourself:  
_when did I get so good at hurting?_

_/_

you do not speak.  
you do not move.  
a ghost.  
you are not tired like you used to be.  
you could stay awake forever.

your brother:  
alive, silver-fingered.  
he takes your hand and  
he pulls you out.  
the world of the living is  
a cool flood of pain that washes into your decayed lungs  
in comparison  
to the still, silent relief of the world of the dead.

you didn't ask for this.  
you didn't.  
you didn't.

/

screeching tyres.  
a mother, singing, drunk.  
she was beautiful enough to be  
cursed twice,  
but now she finds her solace  
in liquid poison.  
she lost you,  
so she wrenches the wheel  
sideways,  
fracturing her spine  
in four places.

in death, she lies sprawled against the windshield,  
arms reaching outwards,  
a butterfly.

you are raised in darkness with  
blood on your hands,  
so much blood that sometimes  
you imagine it is just red paint.  
you are so powerful  
that you are useless.

years of combat,  
of sacrilege  
and indigo robes and  
thinking that  
you can save everyone,  
but you can't.  
you wonder if the red paint on your hands will stain.

/

ash.  
everywhere, under your nails.  
you think you saw that bird  
tear itself from the flames,  
but you can't be certain.  
the moment replays:  
_did I, didn't I?_

arrowheads dig into your palms,  
cutting up your calluses.  
you don't know  
who you are,  
but  
you're not who you want to be.  
still, it's nice to lose yourself in  
loving the dead girl,  
the illusion-maker.  
she is brutal  
because she can be.  
you hate how she knows death is a game.

/

he is a wreck of broken promises,  
a ruin of golden lies,  
but he is beautiful.  
you hate yourself for loving him,  
but he's so easy to love.  
you know you're going to hell for sinning  
_(I want another boy)  
_but you've already been there.

every time you jump,  
writhing shadow bites and tears  
at your veins.  
it says it wants to get out  
or maybe to come in—  
you're not certain.  
all you know is that everything  
hurts a little more  
since you fell.

later, golden hair and  
quietly blue eyes  
fill your vision.  
this does not feel like a sin.  
does it?

/

silk words  
slip from your tongue  
as though you are singing.  
you should not  
like the way it feels  
when your voice slices through their brain,  
rewriting their thoughts,  
but you do.  
like a mirage, you say you are snow  
but are frostbite.  
you promise them that death  
sounds lovely, and  
_shall we jump  
__together?  
__the ground isn't too far, you know._

guilt numbs you,  
but isn't it fair?  
you thought you were in love  
but that was false,  
just like half the things you've ever said.  
you cut him off,  
_people change,  
_and he dies.  
you realise you loved him.

/

brash, cutting bronze rips them apart,  
even as they do not bleed.  
your gaze is stronger than  
your knife,  
so you never blink when  
it sinks in.

falling without him  
would've been death,  
but falling with him  
was death anyway.  
you do not  
think you can forget the way he smiled  
when he let a goddess choke  
on her own tears.

you scream yourself hoarse in your nightmares,  
but he doesn't stop.

/

unwilling.  
you were always  
unwilling.  
they pressed the sword  
into your grasp  
and told you to prove to them  
that you weren't a thief.  
after, they wanted  
more,  
more death at your hands,  
more scars on your body.

you had no choice.  
destroying yourself seemed to be  
the only way,  
so you ripped saltwater from its hiding places  
and drowned them all,  
the whole while knowing  
you could just split the earth in half  
and let the gods who hurt you  
fall into the cracks,  
but then  
you really _would  
_be a monster.

blonde hair and freckles so faint  
you can hardly see them.  
she loves you,  
she does,  
but you don't love her so much as  
_need her  
__(so badly)  
_that it only feels  
like love.

/

the empty, burning scar on your cheek  
is too heavy  
to remain upright.  
still, you live with it,  
nimble fingers itching for  
power,  
for something more  
than the short straw that  
you pulled.

his bronze eyes blaze through  
your blue ones—  
nobody told you it would _hurt_ so fucking much.  
the world is a blur of fog and pain  
_am I me? am I him?  
_and you want to die,  
but before that happens  
you want all of them to suffer.

afterwards, they say that was your flaw.  
you do not hear them.

* * *

**(A/N) POV order: Leo, Reyna, Hazel, Jason, Frank, Nico, Piper, Annabeth, Percy, Luke.**

**Title from the ****_Lover _****album, T.S.**


End file.
